it was four years later when on a sunny afternoon in april a carriage broke down on the amalfi road, between positano and sorrento, in italy. a wheel crumpled up and the driver stopped his horses and explained to his passengers in a jumble of mixed italian and english that he could go no farther. the passengers, an old gentleman of distinguished appearance and a young girl as fresh and lovely as a breath of spring, clambered out of the rickety vehicle and after examining the wheel admitted that their driver spoke truly. on one side the road was a steep descent to the sea; opposite, the hillside was masked by a trellis thick with grapevines. the road curved around the mountain, so there was no other vista.
"here's a nice fix, gran'pa jim!" exclaimed the girl, with an amused laugh. "where are we and what's going to become of us?"
"that is somewhat of a complicated problem, mary louise, and i can't guess it offhand, without due reflection," replied "gran'pa jim," whom others called colonel hathaway. "i imagine, however, that we are about three miles from positano and five or six from sorrento, and it's a stiff walk, for old legs or young, in either direction. besides, there's our luggage, which i am loth to abandon and disinclined to carry."
the driver interposed.
"give-a me the moment, signore—perhaps the hour—an' i return to positano for more carriage-wheel—some other. my cousin l'uigi, he leeve in positano, an' l'uigi have a-many carriage-wheel in he's shed. i sure, signore, i getta the wheel."
"that is a sensible idea," said the old gentleman. "make haste, my man, and we will wait here."
the driver unhitched his horses from the vehicle and after strapping a blanket on one of them for a saddle mounted it and departed.
"i take-a the two horse," he explained, "for one to ride-a me, an' one for to ride-a the wheel."
they watched him amble away down the road and mary louise shook her head and remarked:
"he will never make it in an hour, at that rate, gran'pa jim, and in two hours the sun will have set and it will be dinner time. already i feel the pangs of hunger."
"those who travel in italy," said her grandfather, "should be prepared to accept any happening in a spirit of resignation. a moment ago we were jogging merrily along toward a good hotel and a savory dinner, but now——"
"this entire carriage seems ready to fall apart," declared the girl, standing in the road and viewing the ancient vehicle critically; "so it's a wonder something didn't break sooner. now, if we could get to the other side of that trellis, gran'pa jim, we might find a shady spot to rest while our charioteer is searching for a new wheel."
"there must be a gate, somewhere about," he answered, eyeing the vine-clad barrier. "come, mary louise, let us investigate."
a hundred yards down the road they came to some rude stone steps and a wicket. the old gentleman lifted the wooden latch and found the gate unlocked. followed by mary louise, he entered the vineyard and discovered a narrow, well-beaten path leading up the hillside.
"perhaps there is a house near by," said the girl. "shall we go on, gran'pa jim?"
"why not, my dear? these italians are hospitable folk and we may get a cake and a cup of goat's milk to stay our appetite."
so they climbed the hill, following the little path, and presently came upon a laborer who was very deliberately but methodically cultivating the vines with a v-shaped hoe. seeing the strangers the man straightened up and, leaning upon his hoe, eyed them with evident suspicion.
"good afternoon," said the old gentleman in italian—one of the few phrases in the language he had mastered.
"oh, i speak the english, signore," replied the man, doffing his hat. "i am silvio allegheri, you must know, and i live in america some time."
"why, this is like meeting an old friend!" exclaimed mary louise, winning the fellow instantly with her smile. "but why did you leave america, silvio?"
"because i have make my fortune there," was the solemn reply. "it is easy to make the fortune in america, signorina. i am chef in the restaurant in sandusky—you know sandusky?—most excellent! in a few years i save much money, then i return here an' purchase an estate. my estate is three miles across the hill, yonder, and there is a road to it which is not much used. however, it is a fine estate, an' i am rent it to my cousin for five hundred lira a year. such good business habit i learn in america."
"why don't you live on your estate yourself?" inquired the girl.
"it is not yet the time," answered the man, with a shake of his head. "i am but fifty-two years alive, and while i am still so young i shall work for others, and save the money my estate brings me. when i get old and can no longer work for the others, then i will go to my estate an' be happy."
"very sensible," commented the old gentleman. "and whom do you work for now?"
"the student americano, signore; the one who has rented this valuable estate. i am the signore student's valet, his gardener, and at times his chef. i grease his automobile, which is a very small chug- chug, but respectable, and i clean his shoes—when i can catch him with them off. i am valuable to him and for three years he has paid me fair wages."
"is this a big estate?" asked mary louise.
"enormous, signorina. it comprises three acres!"
"and where is the house?"
"just over the hill, yonder, signore.
"does the student americano live here all alone?"
"with his daughter, who is the signorina alora."
"oh; there is a daughter, then? and you say they are americans?"
"surely, signorina. who else would pay the great price for this estate for three years? the land pays nothing back—a few oranges; some grapes, when they are cared for; a handful of almonds and olives. and there is a servant besides myself, my niece leona, who is housemaid and assists the young lady."
"this sounds promising," said mary louise, turning to her grandfather. "suppose we go up to the house? are the people at home, silvio?—the signore student and his daughter?"
the man reflected, leaning on his hoe.
"i think they are both at the mansion, signorina, although the student americano may not yet have returned from sorrento. the road to the mansion is beyond the hill, on the other side of the estate, so i am not sure the signore student has returned. but you will find the signorina alora there, if you decide to venture on. but perhaps you are the friends of my employer and his daughter?"
"what is his name?" asked colonel hathaway.
"it is jones. the american saying is mister jason jones, but here he is only called the signore student americano."
"why?" asked mary louise.
"because his occupation is reading. he does nothing else. always there is a book in his hand and always he is thinking of the things he reads. he does not often speak, even to his daughter; he does not have friends who visit him. if you should call at the mansion, then you will be the first people who have done so for three years."
there was something in this report—in the manner of the man as well as his words—that caused the strangers to hesitate. the description of "the student" led them to suspect he was a recluse who might not welcome them cordially, but mary louise reflected that there was a daughter and decided that any american girl shut up on this three-acre "estate" for three years would be glad to meet another american girl. so she said abruptly:
"come on, gran'pa jim. let's call. it is possible that americans will have something better in the larder than cakes and goat's milk."
the hilltop was reached sooner than they expected, and in a little vale was the old mansion—a really attractive vine-clad villa that might have stood a century or so. it was not very big, but there were numerous outbuildings which rendered the size of the house proper unimportant. as mary louise and her grandfather drew nearer they discovered a charming flower garden, carefully tended, and were not surprised to find a young girl bending over a rosebush.
